g. As he saw her running out to meet him
he filled with elation and with apprehension. She was so beautiful, so
airy, so seemingly his alone as she ran out thus from their refuge, that
he grudged the hours he had been gone from her.

"Oh," she cried, "the Spring was no more welcome to the wood. I hope you
have brought good news, Gilian." And up she went to him and linked an
arm through his with some of the composure of the companion and some of
the ardour of the sweetheart.

"I think it's all well," said he, putting his arm round her as they went
up towards the hut together.

"Is it only thinking?" she asked with disappointment in her voice, all
the ardour gone from her face, and her arm withdrawn. "I was so certain
it would be sureness for once. Will Miss Mary not help me? I am sorry I
asked her. It was not right, perhaps, that my father's daughter should
be expecting anything from the sister of the Campbells of Keil." She was
all tremulous with vexed pride and disappointment.

"Miss Mary is your very kind friend, Nan," he protested, "and she will
help you as readily as she will help me."

"I am to go down then?" she cried, uplifted again.

"Well, yes--that is, it is between ourselves."

"That's what I would be thinking myself, John Hielan'man," she thought.
And still with all her contempt for his shrinking uncertainty there was
a real fondness that might in an hour have come to full blossom in that
solitude where they so depended on each other.

"I was to ask you something," he said.

"My wise Miss Mary!" said Nan to herself. "Women have all the wits." But
she said nothing aloud, waiting for his explanation.

"I thought there was no need of it myself, but she said she knew
better."

"Very likely she was right too," said Nan. "And now you must tell me
all about what is going on down-by. Are they looking for me? What is my
father saying? Do they blame me?"

Gilian told her all he knew or thought desirable, as they went up to the
hut and prepared for the first meal Nan had that day. It was good that
the weather favoured them. No sign of its habitual rain and wind hung
over the moorland. Soft clouds, white like the wool of lambs new-washed
in running waters, hung motionless where the sky met the moor, but over
them still was the deep blue, greying to the dip.

They lit a fire in the hut with scraps of candle-fir Gilian had picked
up on the way from the town, and a cheerful flame illumined the mean
interior